


Many Stepdames

by maypop



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, deserves a much better ending than I gave it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:43:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/pseuds/maypop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kink meme fill for a matriarchal-leaning future where male nations end up dressing up as women. Not actually sexy at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Stepdames

Who was it, after all, who cured cancer?  
  
The series of shots came in pink tubes, in commemoration, and the vans that trundled around the city offering free screenings had  _at least_  pink hubcaps; for a while, England didn't know a woman under fifty who didn't own that same  _We Did It_  shirt. They handed them out for free on Susan's Day.  
  
 _Next Target for Foundation: Malaria_  the headlines announced, six days before the Last War broke out. They never got around to malaria, but the pink vans were already half-equipped little hospitals, and they raided the emergency rooms before the bombs hit. England helped throw bags of syringes into the back of one of the first Pinkies, as they came to be called, and got them out onto the road before Barts turned into a crater.   
  
The driver clasped his wrist once. "We'll do it," she said, before she slammed the door and roared away. England was pretty sure that was the first time the new slogan was used. He was a nation, he had a knack for being in the center of things.  
  
Men were still the majority of the front line (there is something in England these days, something that has been growing since the first whispered dulce et decorum est, that thinks:  _stupid_ , that thinks:  _of course the military is a respectable and necessary career path but not for_ my _daughter_ ) and for that and many other reasons, after the war, England's government was seventy percent female. Seventy percent of that seventy could drive like maniacs and tie a tourniquet with shells falling around them.   
  
They called it the Pink Parliament, because any wartime propaganda worth having is worth flogging to death. Prime Minister Kaur famously wore her much-patched  _We'll Do It_ shirt to the Praça dos Três Poderes to watch the long war officially end in the dead heat of Brazil's summer, which helps explain why she, at least, looks cool and unruffled in the picture that hangs in the new Museum of London. Kaur had put her foot down about a pink border, at least, thank God. The frame is a nice old gold color.  
  
A copy of an old newspaper hangs next to it, declaring  _Up is Down, Black is White, France is an Ally and Women Run the Country_ , which England tries not to look at, in the same way he tries not to look at a lot of things, whenever the new Prime Minister wants him to go to the Museum, which is unpleasantly often. He remembers when it made perfect sense to levy special taxes on the Jews, too.   
  
"That guy was like a  _heroine_ ," a girl is saying behind him. England glances around--the girl and her father are reading the plaque next to a wired-together triceratops skeleton. The world grows steadily more enlightened, but children's passion for dinosaurs is immemorial.   
  
England clears his throat. "Hero," he puts in.  
  
"Sorry?" the father says.  
  
"The male form of heroine," England clarifies, and the man rolls his eyes a bit at his pettish insistence.   
  
"Heroine includes boys too," the father assures his daughter, and they move past the skeleton towards the hall behind it.  
  
"Your incredibly clumsy point," England tells the Prime Minister that evening. "Is made."

"They can't all be Kaur," France says, when England complains later. France is trying to find something in England's closet that is even slightly respectable and not brutish male posturing, in his words, to which England replied the Englishwomen were quite good looking enough without seven stone of lace to hide behind and his shirts may be mostly button downs but they nipped at the waist and at least came in flattering shades. "You've done worse, and for less." He pauses. "And generally to me."  
  
"Which made it worthwhile," England says.  
  
France shrugs. "Fashions change, though I understand if you would like me to repeat that more slowly, or write it down for you. You've little enough to boast of but nostalgia, but even you can't live in the past." France tousles his hair into a more stylish froth. England scowls.  
  
France says, more gently, which means he is probably talking to the shirts and being only incidentally germane, "You are yet important to the English people. The world is still uncertain--it sends the wrong message, to have a man in our places right now. Of course it won't be forever."  
  
England is still silent, so France says, musingly: "Are you ashamed of your women?"  
  
England is on his feet in a second, grabbing for France's shoulder, drawing his fist back, but France snaps around before England can touch him, England's best shirt in his hand. He makes no other move to defend himself, and slowly, slowly, England lets his hand drop.   
  
"You see?" France says, quietly. "A temper like yours, on a man... we are ancient nightmares, you and I."  
  
England's throat works a moment. "What are you doing with my shirt?"  
  
"This? Burning," France says, and pulls out a lighter.  
  
In the ensuing scuffle, the wall catches on fire. The woman who comes to fix it doesn't look surprised, or amused--just weary of cleaning up after boys' violent games.

*

Estonia sells a powder--Estonia sells more than one powder, these days, but this one tastes of orange and goes in England's tea and brings his voice up to a register that people will listen to. The first day he has it he plays Bee Gees songs for hours and laughs himself sick.  
  
It's a grand lark, for a while. He ignores France's wittering about bias cut and drape and gets himself some sensible suits, he's seen what France does with hot wax and tape and wants no part of it. There's another sort of powder that highlights and misleads, helps fix the shape of his face, and England can get into arguments over the housing market without anyone calling him hormonal and testosterone-driven and implying he doesn't understand the importance of family. He embroiders on the rebuilt Tube and no one marvels at a man being interested in something so artistic.   
  
Passing makes him feel oddly smug, one of those harmless secrets that make a person grin throughout the day, filthy text messages or goose-patterned socks.  
  
He doesn't see another nation for months--they're raw for years after wars. Even the thought of certain names makes his jaw click, but all good things come to an end. The new Prime Minister tells him to show up at a party at five o'clock, show some teeth, show willing. England is sorely tempted to show her the v's.  
  
He'll wear houndstooth, it shows up horribly in photos, and he has the zip halfway done before he swears and grabs his phone.  
  
"France--not in the  _slightest_ , you disgusting pervert, who on earth did you think was calling you? It's me." He clears his throat, and his voice sounds odd in his ears for the first time in a while. "It's England."  
  
"If this is roleplay, I do not appreciate the direction--"  
  
"Shut  _up_ , you clattering nuisance, unless you miss the taste of my boot. I need your help."  
  
"I have been trying to convince you of this for some time."  
  
"I need clothes."  
  
"Yes," France agrees sadly.  
  
"I need  _male_  clothes."  
  
There's a brief silence on the line. "Cher, no."  
  
"Dammit--"  
  
"England," France says, lightly, a nice rounded mezzo. "No." He hangs up.

*

"That wig must be half your GDP," England gripes, and refuses to feel clumsy or rough. The party is glittering and shot through with bright laughter, discreet nations and of-course-we-don't-call-them-VIPs forcing smiles under the bulletproof skylight, photographers skittering like insects.  
  
"Barely a third," France says, tilting his glass back and forth. "What are we drinking? Some kind of rum?"  
  
"Cachaça. Surely not  _everyone_ \--?"  
  
"Of course not," France says, and nods towards a swell of people in the corner. "Dear Allemagne couldn't pass in an empty room. And poor Amérique has fallen to one of his little moralist groups, advocating some kind of return to war and capitalism--Excuse me." He nods at Brazil, as she drifts past them towards the buffet line. "Les États-Unis."  
  
She smiles. "It's a small thing," she confides. "But we appreciate it anyway, França."  
  
France smiles, red lips, clean jawline, smooth and urbane, and England shudders and takes a long drink. Brazil nods to him, too, and passes.  
  
"But--really, I didn't expect..."  
  
"You aren't the only person who likes to be taken seriously. Oh," France says. "Autriche. He does not."  
  
"Austria? But he's pretty enough," England blurts, then feels his ears burn. France raises a sculpted eyebrow.   
  
"I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear," France says. "I think, for a while, he simply didn't notice, thought we'd all just gotten better taste overnight--"  
  
"I was a well dressed man--"  
  
"Not really. But then one day he goes off in that disgustingly dignified way about oppressive standards of masculinity or some such and then he and Hongrie were shouting at each other in public,  _that_  was a pleasant bit of nostalgia..."  
  
France shudders. England laughs. "Hungary! She must be pissing herself with joy."  
  
"You would think," France says. "And I admit I have heard rumors she has embarked on an all ceilings tour of the continent, but--oh, it's starting." The lights dim. On the dais on the other side of the room, Germany's Chancellor is mouthing something about how wonderful it is to see their wonderful faces on this wonderful night celebrating such a wonderful occasion. Whoever wrote her speech had been unkind with the w's.  
  
"What is this about, anyway?" England asks, full voiced, and gets a sharp elbow in answer. Instinctively he grabs it, digs his fingers in painfully.  
  
" _Kirkland_ ," the grating voice of his PM comes from behind. 

"I'm not a dog, woman," he says, but he drops France's arm, shrugs his jacket straight across his shoulders. It pulls, he hadn't had time to get it tailored. "For God's sake, he's fine."  
  
"Pronouns," France trills.  
  
"We wish you wouldn't mention religion," his PM whispers. England rolls his eyes.  
  
France sidles closer, when his PM's turned back to the stage. "A trade union," he whispers. "Germany has been allowed in."  
  
England's fingers tingle where he'd grabbed France, the skin oversensitive like he's fifty years old and touched a breast for the first time. He's very aware of France's throat, and the narrowness of his ankle in his high shoes, and the way the net of his dress closes around his arms. "I see," he says.  
  
Germany is painfully large on the stage. In the way of their kind, he's towards the back, and most people won't remember him the next day, but now--his shoulders are slightly hunched in his suit, and his hands seem to engulf his Chancellor's. People draw away from him slightly. He takes this with a weary acceptance.  
  
England pities him, caught in a body so clumsy and frightening. An orange slice bumps against his lips when he takes another drink. The flavor is familiar and comforting. Up on stage, Brazil and Germany are shaking hands for the camera--the file will corrupt itself before morning, but they keep trying anyway, it'd make such excellent PR if they could make it stick.  
  
France touches his arm. His fingers are damp with condensation. "Watch. My favorite part is coming up."  
  
"No," England says. " _Surely_  they aren't--"  
  
They do. They chivvy Germany until he scoops up Brazil in his arms, like he's about to throw her over his shoulder, while she shrieks and laughs and pounds his shoulders with her fists and cameras go off like stepping on bubble wrap. Then a few of the younger diplomats--he looks embarrassed but he plays along, King Kong in Savile Row, and when it's over he excuses himself, and the women take solemn photos together under their crossed flags.  
  
"It terrifies him, of course," France says. "One mistake--one person who thinks that he has made a mistake, one person who simply does not like him--the punishment would be terrible."  
  
"I need a smoke," England says. There's an itch in his throat. It's been a long time since morning tea. 

When he gets outside he curses. No room for cigarettes in this outfit, of course. No room for cigarettes in the new order, frankly, and England finds himself staring at his squared off ugly hands like he expects a soundtrack to start playing. He curses himself and shoves them in his pockets.  
  
"Penny for the guy," says a voice that England instinctively wants to hit.  
  
"Prussia," he says. Prussia's leaning again the cars, dressed like a chauffeur. He tries a couple different salutes before he remembers how England does his, making England roll his eyes.  
  
"Aren't you dead yet?"  
  
"They named a city after me," Prussia says. "Good behavior."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Not mine, West's."  
  
"Ah." England takes a deep breath, feeling his shirt strain a bit, and steps closer to Prussia. Smells bring back memories, and he doesn't have many good ones of Prussia, but-- "You've been drinking."  
  
"'You've been drinking,  _too,_ '" he corrects. "And smoking, and freezing my balls off, and moaning about the state of the world today, want to join me?"  
  
"God yes," England says, and they sit down on the curb together, hidden behind the tiny eco-friendly cars.   
  
Prussia learned to drink vodka from experts. He says, as he passes over the bottle, that only alcoholics drink without food or toasts, so England fishes out a tin of mints and says, "To progress!"  
  
Prussia crunches a mint approvingly. "To 'peace in our time--'"  
  
"'And all times to follow,'" England finishes, and remembers, for the first time in a long time, that he hadn't liked Kaur, when he met her. He takes a drink long enough that Prussia yanks the bottle away from him.

They get into their game, passing back and forth, until England is squinting at the lightening sky and toasting the enemies of Robespierre, and Prussia is giggling like someone England knows.  
  
"I hate my PM," England says.  
  
"To bad leaders!"  
  
"No, I mean, I just... I hate her. Not because she's a woman, why does everyone say that, just because she's a, a right cunt."  
  
"I haven't got a PM," Prussia says.   
  
"Right. Right." With much deliberation, England takes Prussia's cigarettes and finesses one out of the pack. His thumb feels shredded by the time he gets it lit. He keeps getting distracted by the color on his nails. "So is this... what you do, then? Is this how it goes?"  
  
"Yeah," Prussia says. "Well. No.  _You_ 'll stop feeling sorry for yourself... sometime, and go back to making the best of things."  
  
"You've got a city," England says.  
  
Prussia grunts. "True. And sometimes they let me scream at the army. You're still allowed to scream there," he says, with a touch of pride.  
  
"To screaming!"  
  
"To screaming! Give me a mint."  
  
"We're out."  
  
"Then give me the cigarette." Prussia takes it and holds it in his cupped hand, hiding the light from snipers that aren't there.  
  
Color is coming back to the world. The party will be breaking up soon. Hidden by the cars, Prussia and England pass the cigarette back and forth shakily.  
  
"Your boy's doing well in there," England says, eventually. "They love him."  
  
"He's adaptable. Never thought I'd see the day he married into your people, though. No offense."  
  
"Brazil was Portugal's," England says. "I almost killed France. In there. A party, nice clothes, France breathing down my neck... I had to leave. We don't  _do_  that, anymore."  
  
"Not your shrink," Prussia says. "Not here to dry your fuckin', fuckin'--" he slips into German, which England unfortunately still understands enough of to get the gist of the fact that Prussia does not consider himself everyone's cheap ex imperial pity fuck. Prussia comes back around to English with, "Brand... new day. Adapt. To Brazil and Germany!"  
  
"Fitting," England says.  
  
"That we're out of vodka?" Prussia looks deeply sad. "Oh, wait, no, it was in my hand."  
  
"Toasting the New World," England clarifies.  
  
"And the Kleindeutsche Lösung." Prussia takes a drink.   
  
"Not quite as catchy."  
  
"No. Well, we didn't keep it."  
  
Across the parking lot, the doors open. The guests of honor stagger out, Germany carefully supporting Brazil's dragging steps. Prussia passes the bottle. His knuckles are scarred, have been for as long as he's known him. "If it were me--"  
  
England takes it. "If it were I."  
  
"Thank God it isn't us," Prussia says.  
  
England drinks, and wipes his mouth, and says, "Thank God."


End file.
